Dark New World (Book 3): EMP Deadfall Read Free

be right about these punishments. It was sometimes amusing to see the man try to figure out how to justify doing what he wanted to. Still, Jim was a good man, a trait he’d have to keep an eye on. Good people sometimes lacked the foresight to see the greater good that Peter was leading them toward, especially if reaching it required sacrifices. But for now, Jim was on board. And as long as Jim was part of the program, Peter would let him bask in his reflected glory. The man certainly had no qualms using the privileges of his rank to take his pick of the pretty little fillies among Peter’s people, willing or otherwise. Peter was more than happy to turn a blind eye to Jim’s “eccentricities” so long as he remained an effective bulldog and as long as Peter could continue to feign ignorance of Jim’s less savory “punishments” among the womenfolk. It was a small price to pay for the glory of the lands they would soon settle on.
    He watched Jim move among the people like some medieval Inquisitor, judging each person’s preparedness, being present and making them anxious. As a management technique, it worked. Peter, the Boss, watched Jim as he nodded at one man, then at a woman (but with a glower at her rambunctious child), frowned at a sweating man who had paused for a sip of water. Apparently, those people were packed and ready.
    But then Jim came to a family still struggling to tie their possessions to what little room remained on one of the wagons. Their teen daughter was bent at the waist struggling to tighten a length of rope. Jim asked, looking at the man of the household, “Foreman Peter ordered you people to be ready an hour ago, mister. What’s the delay?”
    The other man had to be nearing fifty. Peter decided he didn’t care what happened to him. Get in line or get what’s coming, it didn’t matter. Old horses had better work if they wanted to eat, right? Jim’s posture was relaxed, open, friendly. But Peter saw that the older man wasn’t fooled; he tensed immediately, and his gaze darted left then right, looking for friendly faces. The other people, however, found conspicuous reasons to turn their back to the unfolding scene. Good. They were learning.
    The man, who Peter remembered was named Eric, looked at his feet, shoulders slumped. “Jim, we’re trying, but my arthritis won’t let me tie up, and my wife don’t know knots. My daughter’s working the line, but she’s not strong enough. Too much other stuff on the wagon. She just needs another minute, I swear, Jim. I’ll help her, okay?” he said, holding both palms up toward Jim placatingly. It didn’t work, of course.
    Jim snarled, then stormed toward the girl. She was no more than fifteen and squealed in fear when Jim approached. He snatched her arm, and Peter knew she’d have bruises when her squeal of fear turned to a screech of pain.
    Her father, Eric, moved in a flash, leaping at Jim. “Get your hands off my daughter, you freak,” he screamed. He led with a clenched fist and struck Jim in the back of his head. Eric’s momentum carried him forward, and he smashed into the man hurting his daughter. They fell to the ground, Eric on top, and Jim’s bat went flying away. Eric quickly straddled him and raised his fist to smash it into Jim’s face. Jim snarled, but it wouldn’t do him any good; Eric had the look of murder on his face, and Jim had let him get the upper hand.
    Fuck this, thought Peter. Even an old workhorse, good for nothing but the glue factory, could get a surprise kick in, but Jim mattered a lot more than that asshole. In one deft movement Peter raised his rifle and, with barely a moment to sight in, squeezed the trigger.
    Bang . The man’s chest caved in, gore splattering the wagon behind him. His wife—Peter couldn’t remember the old bitch’s name—screamed and lunged forward. The daughter, however, leapt toward her mother and restrained her, screaming at her mother to stop. Smart girl.
    Jim rose, face red